Portraits
by RoseUK
Summary: I started this based on a scene from The Golden Hammer (the spying episode), had no idea where I was going with it, gave up, then thought that maybe instead I would try to do a little 'portrait' of each character; basically it's a creative writing exercise... ;) Only a little snapshot, linguistic 'doodling', nothing more.
1. Chapter 1

** Portraits**

**I started this based on a scene from The Golden Hammer (the spying episode), had no idea where I was going with it, gave up, then thought that maybe instead I would try to do a little 'portrait' of each character; basically it's a creative writing exercise... ;) Only a little snapshot, linguistic 'doodling', nothing more.  
**

The man sits calmly on the park bench. He is a picture of studied ease; one leg crossed elegantly over the other, one arm draped nonchalantly over the back of the black iron bench. He wears his dark blue suit heedlessly, his shirt rumpled and unkempt, shrugged on as if there were more important matters in the world to attend to. The notion is affirmed by the sight of thick beige woollen socks emerging from a pair of battered brown loafers. If the man is aware of any incongruity in his attire, he does not show it. He is entirely careless of the sight he presents, which, with his circlet of gold-blond hair, is arresting, if only at second glance. Look closer and it becomes clear that this man is not idly gazing, nor daydreaming, nor lost in thought or a newspaper or a phone like his fellow bench-sitters. His gaze may pan languidly left to right, but it is intent and searching. It is the only motion in an otherwise still, poised frame. His light blue eyes hold a note of sardonic amusement; a small, knowing smile plays about the lips in a virtually impassive face. He is watching the passers-by; he is reading their lives, their stories, their histories. They have no idea they are being stripped bare, of course - this man knows how to hide in plain sight. Everything about him is relaxed, indolent, unhurried. Only those cool watchful eyes give him away, and who would walk close enough to notice?

He sees the woman before she sees him. She is standing at the top of the steps a little to his right, her small frame casting a long shadow which reaches for him. Frowning slightly, her green eyes squint against the sun as her feet and legs take a solid stance on the paving stone. Immediately his body is awake, alert, like a languorous cat roused from slumber. The hint of hardness in his ice-blue eyes melts away, replaced with freshness and light. And as he turns his body towards her in welcome, there is no longer faint secrecy in his smile, only wide open sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2: Teresa Lisbon

**Portraits: Lisbon**

In a dimly-lit office, at a tidy desk, sits a small woman in a dark fitted jacket that accentuates the long dusky hair falling gently around her translucent face. Everything about her is petite: a dainty nose with a smattering of freckles, a neat mouth, elfin hands, and delicate fingers that are tapping at her keyboard with unexpected vehemence. Only her eyes are large – large and luminous and pearlescent green, framed by fine, long lashes and elegantly arched brows. Some might even say that she has the look of a porcelain princess about her, though the downturned lips currently pulled into a pout would suggest a temper a little on the short side. On another woman, perhaps, a scowl like this would repel. Stern, humourless; a harridan, maybe, but on this woman, it is merely engaging. The deepening pout only serves to crinkle her nose into dancing freckles and draw her mouth into a furious rosebud, whilst any ferocity in her sparkling gaze is offset by the honest, vibrant, impatient spirit behind it. She is visibly vexed and her top lip protrudes slightly over the bottom, like a little child, as she glowers wordlessly and forcefully at the man lying on the white couch to her right.

"Would you quit that?! God!" she eventually hollers across the office, a note of exasperation sending her voice ringing into the higher pitches, as she flings a pencil at him with small, deft fingers and the unswerving aim borne of extensive practice. But the man only grins crookedly to himself, and looks a little as if he might have done it on purpose.

**This is rather less objective than the first 'portrait' of Jane; I think I've coloured it more obviously with my own impressions of her/how Jane views this side of her. I wanted to contrast her petiteness with her toughness, but I found it quite difficult! (I tried to get a gun in there somewhere, but it wouldn't fit in this scene/picture, heh.) Also, it's old-school CBI. ;)  
**

**Thank you for reading; thank you also to anyone who has previously reviewed and to whom I never responded! (I didn't realise it was standard etiquette to do that around here till quite recently!)**


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